


Rise of the Mad God

by Nebulad



Series: Knight, Knave, and Squire [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen, Madness, Post-Oblivion Crisis, Post-shivering Isles, daedric mantling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: It's been a year since the Hero of Kvatch, Champion of Cyrodiil and Saviour of Bruma, vanished after investigating a small island that cropped up near Bravil. When she returns, she makes her winding way towards her old friend Modryn's home.It is a chrysalis for her ultimate transformation.
Relationships: Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim
Series: Knight, Knave, and Squire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/755688
Kudos: 15





	Rise of the Mad God

It is a process of germination, a seed planted in a mortal chest cavity and left to fester until it is too late; until the ribs are already tangled with divinity, the blood a boiling ambrosia. Fairne woke up on the shores of Bravil and dragged herself back to Chorrol before she realised she hadn’t been dreaming, the ache in her bones was real, the hideous truth revealed in her pack— the Isles had been there, real and teeming. Syl, Thadon, Haskill…

Jyggalag had been real.

Sheogorath had been real.

Rather than return to her modest little home, a few buildings down from the Guild that surely needed her attention in some manner or another, she made a beeline for Modryn’s house. He answered the door blearily, the sun hardly breaching the barrier of the buildings before he is summoned from sleep. “What thrice curs— by the Nine, Fairne, what’ve you done to your face?”

. . . . .

She was asleep and awake and watching the stars pulse against Aetherius on the ceiling of Modryn’s house. He’d decided it was best for her to not be seen until they could decide what was the best course of action; he consulted friendly mages at all hours of the day while moonlight knitted its way through the dim corners of his home.

Mazoga arrived on the third day and scowled, looking down forcefully as Fairne hadn’t rose to meet her upon arrival. “Its the eyes,” she reported shortly, as if she’d been brought in for her medical opinion. “Has she said where she’d gone?”

She hadn’t. It was her shame, her weakness, her escape into the Isles to leave Martin’s death behind her. She hadn’t said much of anything at all, in retrospect, just… laying backwards and watching the wooden ceiling breathe. This was her chrysalis, the living shell that held her close while her insides rearranged. Modryn, more or less, informed Mazoga of such. “We’ll just need to watch her until someone can at least tell us where she’s been; the gods-damned Champion of Cyrodiil and no one’s seen hide nor tail of her in a year.”

. . . . .

“You know I’m in no place to judge you,” Mazoga whispered, her concern curling wispy white against the dying candlelight. It was her watch, while Modryn shopped and ate and contemplated what to do with the catatonic elf sleeping in his bed. “Neither is Oreyn. Don’t know what he does in his free time, but what with how Orcs and Dark Elves worship…”

She fell silent and then tensed when Fairne’s eyes dropped to her from the wide, invisible sky, for the first time since she arrived. There was no air in her lungs with which to speak, no muscles to move the muscles to move the muscles to make her voice work. “I know,” Mazoga breathed, leaning forward. “It’s gotta be daedric, right?”

Fairne looked back to the ceiling.

“It looks familiar, is all— sometimes you see it in the eyes of the shaman, the  _ really  _ old ones who’ve  _ seen  _ stuff. I never expected it of you… you know, considering the priest—”

The air goes black, then red. The candle blows out. The moonlight shatters into silver shards and melts into the floor, disappearing. There’s no connections, no muscles on muscles on muscles to move Fairne’s disconnected body; but Mazoga goes silent. “Can you tell me what…  _ who…” _

The candle ignited again, just in time for Fairne to fall back asleep.

. . . . .

Martin’s face is made of wispy smoke, made of marble, made of fire, made of stars, and Fairne will never see him again. She can taste it now, the flowers sprouting between her ribs and vicious vines lashing her bones together; she has the will to move again, to stand, to create white flame where she steps and burn little kisses into Modryn’s floor.

Modryn fell asleep, and Fairne can’t remember if she was responsible for her watcher’s lack of oversight or not. Mazoga is on break, and won’t be surprised when she comes back to find the Champion missing. Fairne cannot stay in Mundus— it’s too far from him.

She cannot be close, but she can be less far.

**Author's Note:**

> What do you know I like this too. Sometimes you just gotta lean on your friends while you come to terms with the fact that you're a daedra now and frankly, your priest and ex-daedra worshipping best friend who died recently would have probably not been a huge fan of that career move.
> 
> I make [playable interactive fiction here](https://heartforge.itch.io/), for when you run out of snippets about Altmer tripping through godhood.


End file.
